


Jumpers and Spaghetti

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cooking, Fluff, M/M, Mind Palace, Pining, Unrequited Love, domestic!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:37:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Out of the many strange things about Sherlock Holmes one would never quite think to guess of his true obsession. Until a few months ago one could easily list the weirdest curiosities of Sherlock, from his inability to interact in a tactful and caring manner with the majority of the human race, to the perverse interest he held in crime and gore.<br/>With the addition of John Hamish Watson into the life of Sherlock Holmes things, as things always do, changed dramatically."</p><p>Sherlock made do with what he had, anything to sate the growing obsession, but this time he slipped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumpers and Spaghetti

**Author's Note:**

> This is also posted on a joint wattpad account but I figured this is a more fanfiction friendly environment. I know Sherlock gets kinda out of character for a little while but I was in the mood for fluff so I stuffed the more logical side of my brain away.

Out of the many strange things about Sherlock Holmes one would never quite think to guess of his true obsession. Until a few months ago one could easily list the weirdest curiosities of Sherlock, from his inability to interact in a tactful and caring manner with the majority of the human race, to the perverse interest he held in crime and gore.  
With the addition of John Hamish Watson into the life of Sherlock Holmes things, as things always do, changed dramatically. 

To Sherlock, John was everything, the ultimate puzzle, one he thought he had solved a thousand times over yet still draws him back. So Sherlock did what Sherlock did best, he investigated and he studied. 

It was a hobby to begin with, during a case the left over sections of his brain would pick up on the mannerisms and habits of his flatmate. During down time, when cases were few and far between he would retreat to his mind palace and sort through the information he’d gathered and he’d revel in the little looks John would give him when he made a deduction. That look which said, “brilliant,” without the need for words. 

His little secret hobby kept his mind from self-cannibalising itself and it kept him from destroying things around the flat. This, for quite obvious reasons, made John much more relaxed and pleased with Sherlock. A quietly thinking Sherlock was much easier to handle then one with a gun. For Sherlock though John’s satisfaction was just fuel for the fire.  
Before too long Sherlock started his practical experiments. He’d categorise what glare he got for different body parts in the fridge, he’d see how John reacted to varying levels of physical contact. 

The most interesting set of data to come out of these types of experiments wasn’t John’s reactions at all it was Sherlock’s.  
He noted with curiosity the level of serenity and calm he achieved just by grazing his side against John’s. The strange joy it caused him when John would simply smile or even so much as call his name. 

So what was a scientist to do? Sherlock researched; papers, day time TV, Google, journals, he even went as far as to question Molly as he was analysing yet another sample of dirt from the suspect’s tie. He came to the single most terrifying conclusion of his life.  
Sherlock Holmes, unmovable, distant, sociopathic, Sherlock Holmes was in love. 

As soon as the conclusion had been reached Sherlock fought it with every fibre of his being, intent on not succumbing to petty human desires. He attempted to find reasons to be mad or annoyed with John and found plenty to chose from, from the way he let his emotions control him to the way he missed such obvious things.  
In the end though all those little sentimental, stupid and human things that John did, his obsession with social competency, his love for jam and tea and most importantly his brave and kind heart, just dragged Sherlock deeper under. 

A month after coming to the startling conclusion that he was in love with his flatmate and blogger Sherlock gave up the lost cause of ‘getting over it.’  
For the most part nothing changed, maybe Sherlock made more excuses to brush against John and just perhaps smiled a little more often.  
They still went on cases, Sherlock still left experiments in the fridge and forgot basic human needs. If John noticed that Sherlock now placed his experiment away from the food in the fridge or waited a little while longer for him at crime scenes he didn’t say anything. 

One Thursday afternoon the cases were thin and weak, John was at the clinic and Sherlock was home allow, engrossed in his mind palace.  
They’d just finished a case involving 3 dogs, a hamster and a roll of sticky tape and Sherlock was sorting through the details and deciding which to keep.  
When each useful detail was sorted by time, place, subject and in reverse alphabetical he moved onto his pet-project. 

He would have never guessed quite how hard it was to love someone without being loved in return. He had believed that it would be simple enough to soldier on with one sided love without a second thought on the matter, it seemed though that this was easier thought than done. 

There was entire wing in the palace dedicated to John where every aspect and memory of him was kept tight and secure. There was a whole room dedicated to his smell, another to the multitude of jumpers which felt so soft under his hand when he pulled him off to the morgue. There was a hall wallpapered with the awed remarked John had given him off from which came rooms filled with harsh remark aimed at Sherlock’s lack of emotion and care, rooms with Sherlock’s favourite sayings of John’s. Another contained boxes and boxes of John’s case related questions and statements. A small annex housed his flatmate’s more amusing and sarcastic sayings. 

However in the centre room of the Watson Wing was Sherlock’s favourite room, filled with jumpers and tea and warmth, the very best of John’s kind and refreshing words washing over him each time he entered the room in his mind. 

It was in this room of his mind palace that Sherlock spent most of his non-case time, sorting and organising and revelling in everything that was John.  
The man himself would likely say it wasn’t normal, would likely proclaim that he wasn’t gay and promptly leave as if it were all too much. 

Sherlock, with all his deductions and brilliance had never noticed if John held any romantic feelings towards him in the way he did. He held friendship, of that he was certain and an immense level of trust and fondness but not in the all encompassing way Sherlock did. Sherlock would not risk the moments he had for the (from his observations) slim chance he had of having an actual relationship with John. And he certainly would not risk a messy break up when John inevitably realised that Sherlock was too erratic or dangerous or cruel. He wouldn’t risk John leaving. 

He would get his fix of John when he could, in stolen moments not in the moments he dreamed of.  
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and his hands fell away from their typical praying position. In his usual gracefully lopping gallop he hurried up the stairs to his flatmate’s room. He had of course memorised the layout of the room long ago on one of his expeditions of boredom. He was careful not to disturb anything as he reached into the draw and pulled out his favourite oatmeal sweater, the one which made his stoic mask falter and crack, the one which had been the catalyst in his love for John. 

He held it as if it were a kidney or liver, reverently yet with an air of caution. This was not the first time Sherlock had taken the jumper from its home, nor, did he think, it would be the last.

Sitting on the edge of John’s hastily made bed he lifted it to his nose and found himself drowning in the softness, warmth and comfort that came from something so completely John. 

He just sat there in that immeasurable moment, at some point lying back to enjoy the security, familiarity and utter humanity that was John.  
He used to believe that humanity had no hope, that it had fallen to dust and idiocy; John proved him wrong. John gave him hope and loyalty and bravery, John gave him a reason to eat and try and maintain his health. Most of all he tore down the barriers he had built against emotion and sentiment, he trod over his indifference and callousness, at least when he was there. 

To the rest of the world Sherlock was Sherlock the harsh and brilliant detective, with John, Sherlock was the man who just wanted to be loved. 

“Sherlock! Are you still alive in here?” John’s voice weaved around the flat the actual worry in his voice clear to only Sherlock. 

In a moment of panic Sherlock jumped from the bed, smoothing it behind him. Trying to be most quick and careful at the same time he rubbed the jumper over his face one last time before placing it back in the draw. 

Sherlock had just slipped out the door as John came trudging up the stairs. 

“I hope you weren’t going through my room again Sherlock,” John chastised, looking at the taller man as if he were a child. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about John,” Sherlock replied in his cool manner. 

“Don’t try to brush me off Sherlock Holmes.”

Irritated, parental tone, care but not romantic, long day at the clinic, children judging by vomit on left sock, won’t react well to being read. Change of subject best course of action, Angelo’s, he didn’t have lunch. 

“I assure you I was not going through your room John, merely observing the difference in grease layers on the wallpaper,” Sherlock lied, the haughtiness in his tone throw off John. 

With a sigh the smaller man rubbed a hand over his face and tried to push past Sherlock into his room. For the split second they were in contact Sherlock’s mind stopped spinning and tearing with clues and blood, everything was laid out perfectly. Everything was John. 

“John! Wait,” Sherlock exclaimed, the slight note of panic making John turn wearily. 

“Yes Sherlock?”

Now Sherlock could truly look him in the eye it was clear that John was not in the mood for any of his antics, not after what was clearly such a long day.

“Should we eat at Angelo’s?” Sherlock asked in what John thought was a strangely considerate tone. 

With a wary nod Sherlock finally looked satisfied and went downstairs. 

John had in fact not had a particularly long day, sure a child had vomited on his shoe but overall it had been quite calm, he simply hadn’t had enough sleep the night before due to a rather persistent violin. Then of course he’d forgotten his lunch and had had to make do with chips from the vending machine. 

A meal at Angelo’s sounded just right. The doctor shuffled over to his draws to change into something a little more comfortable and a little less smelly. 

He pulled out the first sweater that touched his fingers which happened to be the very same one Sherlock had just held. Only after he had pulled it over head, his arm aching slightly with fatigue, did he notice the few dark curly hairs stuck to the wool. His last girlfriend had been a month ago and she’d been a blonde leaving only one possibility to who the hair belonged to.

Pulling on his jeans as he went he made his way downstairs. 

“Checking the walls hey?” he said as soon as he entered the kitchen where Sherlock had pulled out a heart.

When Sherlock looked up curiously John was holding the hairs in the tips of his fingers and gesturing towards his jumper. Sherlock visibly paled before gaining all his colour and then some in a blush.

“I checked the woodwork as well,” he stated in what he thought was a clever lie. 

John was having none of it. “You have no thought of personal space do you!?” He was angry, a rare sight which came close to scaring Sherlock. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother.”

Sherlock stared after him blankly while his mind went into damage control. All the evidence, every reaction and word pointed towards John leaving, towards going back to lonely days lacking warmth and comfort. 

A million little ideas flashed through the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes at that moment before he settled on one. 

 

30 rather uneventful minutes later the table was cleaned and set and two bowls of spaghetti bolognaise were steaming away. Sherlock thanked the cooking lessons his mother had put him and Mycroft through as children and hoped he hadn’t forgotten any vital steps again. 

John had yet to come out of his room, where he had retreated to with his laptop after the hair incident.  
Sherlock took a deep breath and leaped –metaphorically –into the unknown. 

“John, could you come down here?” he called in what he hoped wasn’t his usual harsh manner. In a moment of panic he added, “please!”  
He waited next to the pile of dishes, cursing himself for forgetting his manners. 

A few moments later however John could be heard coming down the stairs, slightly favouring one leg.  
“Sherlock, I'm not in the moo-“  
John stopped in his tracks and just stared at Sherlock, his eyes flickering briefly towards the food.

“I hope you like spaghetti, I was hoping for soup but we didn’t have any stock,” Sherlock started to babble in a rare sign of nerves.

“Sherlock, why? How? What?” then it was John’s turn to babble. 

“You were angry for my going through your jumpers, I just wanted to do something … Normal,” Sherlock muttered, looking shy for the first time in John’s memory.  
In Sherlock’s head he was cursing himself for being so dull and average, for letting his emotions get through to him but if it helped keep John he’d do anything. 

“Thank you,” John told him as he sat down to his meal, Sherlock hastily sitting down opposite. 

They ate their meal in almost silence a part from comments on the day and compliments on the food.  
John and Sherlock washed up together after the bowls were clear of food, both seemingly in a better mood.  
Afterwards Sherlock conceded to abandon the experiment bubbling away next to the stove in favour of sitting next to John on the sofa to watch some crappy game show. During one ad break John turned in his seat to face Sherlock. 

“You know how you’ve been trying to teach me to notice things?” John stopped to prompt Sherlock who nodded. 

“Well I think I’ll make you proud with this one,” he continued confidently. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised in apprehension, “is that so?”

With a smirk John continued, “you’re in love with me.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised to a dangerous level, one half of his mind was impressed the other was terrified. “How do you come to this conclusion?” he asked after clearing his throat. 

John leaned in, a confident and sure aura about him that Sherlock had only seen in brief moments. Sherlock tensed, his heart and lungs speeding up in unison in the most stupid display of emotion he’d ever seen. This was everything he wanted, why was he choking up?

When John laughed his breath washed over Sherlock’s face, slightly ruffling his curls. 

“You’re brother has a camera in every room, he showed me the footage of you and my jumper,” John whispered, positively gleeful at having one up over Sherlock. 

“That’s why you had your laptop,” Sherlock deduced quickly. 

“Yes, that and I was going to get bored, you’re brother is a very sly man.” John chuckled again and Sherlock could smell his toothpaste.

Suddenly Sherlock frowned and tried to move away from his flatmate. John immediately grasped the back of Sherlock’s neck with a gentle hand and held him in place. 

Sherlock allowed the touch but continued warily. “You don’t mind?” Before John could reply he added the most important deduction of his life so far, “You feel the same.”

With a flash of teeth John tilted his head and at long last John had his Sherlock and Sherlock his John. It was gentle and soft, barely even there. Merely a give and take of lips, an irrevocable claim, a branded ‘mine’ in the mind of the other. John gave Sherlock’s lip a quick nip before they finally lent back. 

“Yes, it took you long enough. I thought you’d have known by now that when I say I'm not gay, doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” John muttered into the skin of Sherlock’s chin.  
Sherlock couldn’t believe his luck, John Watson, his John, had surprised and rewarded him with his acceptance again. Then came one thing that sealed his resolve that a relationship was both inevitable and needed. 

“Oh and Sherlock, from now on if you want to hug something of mine, hug me.”


End file.
